


Formatting Issues

by CrescentMoonDemon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Insecticon, M/M, MTMTE, Mechpreg, Other, Transformer Sparklings, beastiality, idw - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5961942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrescentMoonDemon/pseuds/CrescentMoonDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of weakness leads to a lot of unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Formatting Issues

Sunstreaker growled. Gripping his spike in one servo and plunging the false spike in and out of his valve with the other, he chased the peak that continued to elude him.  


It had been like this for a couple weeks, now. Each time Sunstreaker bedded down after a long shift, usually having suffered through being bickered at by someone on the crew or forced to endure one of Ultra Magnus’s tirades on duty station cleanliness, the only thing he had to look forward to aside from the random nights he was treated to a romp with Skids, Powerglide, or Hound was working the tension off himself.  


These past weeks, however, the forces of the universe seemed to unite against him to prevent him from overloading. For the life of him, Sunstreaker could not figure out what was causing it. There had been no significant changes in his fuel intake or recharge schedule, no new stressors, and his fantasies were as vibrant and imaginative as ever, but no matter what positions he tried, toys he used, or who he imagined sucking him off or pounding into him, he just couldn’t get his charge high enough to crest.  


“Come on,” Sunstreaker pleaded, almost in a whine.  


Tilting his chin back to expose his throat cables, he conjured up an image of Ironhide on top of him, dentas grazing his intake, pumping his spike, and rocking between his thighs.  


Oh, yes, this is a good one, he thought. Should prob’ly use a bigger spike but—Uungh, fraggit, this is a good one.  


He chased it. Primus, he chased that sweet charge. And the worst part was he felt the crackle of static across his plates. It got his hopes up. He gripped harder, pushed deeper, faster, imagining calloused servos gripping his hips and driving into him. He felt it rising. Almost. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he’d finally get it. Maybe he could finally sleep tonight.  


Rising. Risiiing~ Almost! Almost!  


The cresting came higher, hotter. Static in his audials and heat in his frame. He moaned into empty air, imagining Ironhide’s voice: C’mon, kid. Give it up for me.  


“Oh, Primus,” he whined.  


But it wasn’t enough! He needed it higher, hotter. But his frame wouldn’t—couldn’t—give it to him! So close to the crescendo and he felt it tapering off!  


Deprived of overload once again, Sunstreaker chucked the false spike across the room in a fury, pleased to hear it bang! into the wall and clatter as it fell, resolved to finding it before leaving his habsuite sometime tomorrow morning. Only time would fix his predicament, now. Sunstreaker turned on his side without bothering to close his panels and did his damndest to empty his processor.  


Empty like his fragging valve.  


Slaggit.  


But even that peace was deprived from him. Sunstreaker heard the snuffling and pedes shuffling across the floor and groaned. He told Bob to be quiet, to lie down and recharge. It was quiet for a few seconds, and it seemed the insecticon would obey, but then the snuffling became more insistent as Bob began making a new sound Sunstreaker was not familiar with.  


Blue optics snapped open. Sunstreaker whipped off his recharge slab and snatched the false spike from the insecticon—who was nosing into it with far too much interest than he was comfortable with.  


“Bob, no,” exclaimed Sunstreaker, pointing a firm digit at the insecticon.  


But Bob’s answering cower deflated the scold he was prepared to deliver. The pathetic look in yellow optics combined with the faintly pink residue of valve lubricant on his facemask made Sunstreaker’s shoulders sag doubly low. He cleaned Bob’s faceplate first, paying no mind to his pawing and chirrs and nuzzling into the hand behind the rag, then Sunstreaker cleaned the false spike and returned it to its drawer with the others.  


He lied down again, praying for peace, but Primus-slaggit there would be none of that tonight. Not when Bob chirred and shuffled about incessantly on his makeshift nest of scrap cloth and paper, making a horrible racket, and Sunstreaker could not force his mind away from the throbbing of his spike or the ache in his valve no matter how earnestly he wished.  


Maybe one more try would cure him, he thought. Maybe it would finally work. Just maybe.  


Clinging to that small sliver of hope, Sunstreaker settled on his back and spread his thighs. Gripping his spike, he conjured up another image. Blurr, this time. Someone new. Hmm, maybe a faster approach would do him good. Sunstreaker imagined the racer between his legs, kissing his panels, worshipping his legs. Mmmm, that was good. Servos tracing the inside of his thighs, thumbing circles into the junction of his legs and hip plating and fingering the wires underneath.  


Frag, he missed that feeling. Skids was good at reaching those wires. Mmmm, oh, Skids. Maybe a third party might help, too? Gripping his spike a little firmer, Sunstreaker tipped his helm back and thought of Skids riding him. Nngh, yeah, that’s it. With Blurr between his legs, finger-fucking his valve, licking and sucking his anterior node and Skids taking his spike to the hilt, surely this had to be it.  


A-aah! Yes, that’s iiiit~ A jolt of static crackled across his plates. Primus, this had to be the thing that finally did it~  


The berth rocked between the three of them. Blurr’s powerful racing engine revved, a harsh shot of vibrations rocketing up Sunstreaker’s spinal strut. Burying his face in Sunstreaker’s valve, slurping and purring hungrily as he ate him out—  


Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.  


WHOA.  


“BOB!” Sunstreaker shrieked, shoving the insecticon off.  


Bob barely caught himself before taking a tumble, claws clamping around the edges of the berth with an equally startled cry.  


The two sat there stunned for an uncountable number of seconds. Sunstreaker stared at the cowering insecticon. Bob stared at his wide-eyed master. But, as always, that pathetic apologetic whimper and defensive curl deflated Sunstreaker’s ire, and he reached out. Bob lowered his helm, antennae down at an angle, and pushed into his palm when he realized he wasn’t going to be punished.  


Sunstreaker sighed and, despite having just had the shock of a lifetime, allowed the insecticon to come up and nuzzle under his arm.  


“What am I gonna’ do with you?” he muttered to himself, reflexively scratching the insecticon’s favorite spot behind his helm.  


With a pang of chagrin, Sunstreaker realized Bob’s faceplate had a formidable smudge of valve lubricant on it. He leveled the insecticon’s helm to wipe it off on his wrist, but Bob took it for affection and nuzzled into his hands. The more Sunstreaker tried to get the little mech to hold still the more Bob took it for play and tried to snuggle up or nuzzle or rub into him. It got to the point where Sunstreaker had to manhandle the insecticon’s helm to keep him still, but he didn’t even think about the manner in which he had to grapple with him until Bob had settled his weight between Sunstreaker’s thighs, pawing at him with both sets of forelimbs and whining happily.  


Panels still retracted. Spike standing tall. Valve throbbing and leaking lubricant down his aft.  


Primus, that—  


Not good.  


That feels—  


Oh.  


—reeeeally good.  


Bob was heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that his body weight pressing down on Sunstreaker’s thighs felt damn divine. Strong and hot and solid and heavy. Just what he needed.  


Servos and frame froze while gripping Bob’s helm and failed to notice when the insecticon chirred and slipped free. Not until vents were huffing against his arrays and a faceplate was nuzzling forward; a shot of pleasure raced up his spine. There was a thought in Sunstreaker’s mind that he should stop him. He should really, really stop him. He was going to stop him. Right now. Just grab his helm and push him off. Be easy. Just stop him. Right now. Right—  


Bob purred, nuzzling into the source of the smell he found he liked but wasn’t entirely sure why.  


And Sunstreaker let him. Primus, let him. Purr and nuzzle and nudge. Sunstreaker parted his thighs without thinking and held Bob on either side of his helm, chin tipped back as faceplates nuzzled into the heated junction of his thighs. The metal grate shifted aside and Sunstreaker felt something that was not lips but it was moving and mouthing at his anterior node and fragging good at it, and something that was like a glossa but not lapping the fluids that leaked from the rim.  


Digits quivering over Bob’s helm, stroking and petting absently, Sunstreaker kept coming back to the thought that he should not be doing this. Should not be letting this happen. Could not let this happen. Could not, should not, would not. But equally at the forefront of his processor was the resounding notion that wow this is exactly what you need.  


Something different. Something new. Something taboo. Extremely taboo.  


Instinctively, Sunstreaker knew he was going to regret this before the night cycle was over. And the instant that thought processed he reached the wholly logical conclusion: Your pedes are already wet. Go for a fragging swim.  


He canted his hips forward into the invading touch. Bob positioned himself closer and nosed his faceplates deeper against the valve offered up to him, not-glossa lapping with greater fervor and not-lips kneading and mouthing at the rim trying to clench around the foreign touch. Strong, clawed servos were placed on his thighs, pushing them farther apart, allowing Bob deeper. Not-glossa laved deep along the slit of his valve then delved partly in, drawing a pleasant shriek that had Bob’s antennae dancing above his helm. As slagging incredible as it was, the hard throbbing in his core alerted Sunstreaker to the fact what he desperately needed could only be found inside. Preferably with a spike. A big, thick spike.  


Sunstreaker worked up the nerve control to push Bob off at about the same time the insecticon began doing this weird little dancing motion with his back legs, jockeying around side to side and lifting his back legs like he was trying to scratch his belly. But as soon as Sunstreaker’s servos were on his helm, his faceplate slid back into place and he reluctantly pulled away, already plying his master for attention.  


“Good boy, Bob,” was all Sunstreaker could think to say, a little short of breath and scratching the insecticon in another good spot between his thrusters.  


Bob responded with a shrill keen of his own and mock-tackled Sunstreaker’s middle. A bizarre heat radiated against where Bob’s undercarriage met with Sunstreaker’s knee, and he had a reasonable note of curiosity along with the thought that, well, of course he was going to have to see for himself what he was working with. Sunstreaker pat Bob’s siding in a way that somehow got his point across, and Bob shifted onto his side and his master was allowed to paw at the paneling between his back legs, already quite heated and seeming to vibrate. As familiar a motion as it was to the experienced frontliner, it became suddenly awkward when faced with the reality of whose panel he was groping, but he pushed the thought to the back of his processor and focused on the way Bob responded.  


Trilling and chirping, optics shuttered and back legs twitching, Bob clung to one of Sunstreaker’s thighs and nuzzled it. The paneling retracted with only a little rubbing, and out rose. . . .  


Sunstreaker wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it, except that it threw his processor for a loop so mind-bogglingly fast it could have made a Seeker dizzy.  


Sunstreaker was wrong to assume Bob’s interface equipment would look like an ordinary mech’s. What emerged from behind the insecticon’s paneling could be best equated to a spiral formation wrapped in the shape of a pseudo-spike, thicker at the base and tapered to a thinner point about three-quarters of the way down. At the tip was a tear-drop shape that curved forward and down in a slightly different direction than the rest of the spike, and the color pattern was predominately purple and black with splashes of yellow LED lighting. That last detail was entirely unexpected.  


“Okay, not what I was expecting,” he admitted to no one.  


Still, he’d be lying if he said Bob’s response—keening long and low and bucking into Sunstreaker’s hand when he began to curiously stroke it—wasn’t encouraging by its own right. He treated it with longer strokes, from the base all the way to the tip, thumbing the oddly shaped end until Bob was a squealing bundle of delight attempting to hump his servo.  


What happened next nearly made Sunstreaker’s Spark stall mid-pulse. Bob’s spike . . . unfurled. What he had originally taken for spiral layering untwined into eight separate appendages altogether. These constituent parts moved with complete autonomy. It wrapped around Sunstreaker’s digits and servo with enough strength and dexterity to think he was being held by another mech’s servo. Well. The only reason he didn’t immediately wrench away was because of the look of bliss in Bob’s faceplate: optics shuttered to four yellow slivers and a musical trill as the two stationary central “spikes” (which remained wrapped around each other, only one of which held the teardrop at the tip) ground into his palm.  


Lining the sides of these two center spikes were series’ of feather-like filaments that waved in perfect succession. At the same time, the remaining six tendrils were thinner and about a third shorter; they wrapped around Sunstreaker’s digits and spread a lubricant-like secretion everywhere they touched, holding his servo in place and grinding the center spikes in his palm.  


Sunstreaker chewed his lip and felt his faceplate heating as he stroked him.  


“Well, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, boy?”  


Bob trilled.  


But the worst part. The worst part was the curiosity.  


Sunstreaker had committed to trying this and by Primus he was going to see it through.  


He wanted to try.  


He wanted to feel that—Sunstreaker wasn’t sure he could really call it a spike, but that’s what it was as far as he was concerned—in him. Sensibility be slagged, he wanted to try.  


Sunstreaker managed to work his hand free with some negotiating and a very displeased sounding insecticon. He directed Bob to the foot of the berth and made a show—more for his own ego than Bob’s approval, which was a given—of twisting up and around on his servos and knees. Aft in the air, knees spread, and the backs of his thighs looking oh so soft, Sunstreaker watched over his shoulder as he wiggled his hips.  


Bob’s everything stood at perfect attention, antennae shooting straight up.  


In the back of his processor, Sunstreaker had the presence of mind to think, I should really have a command for this. Because, y’know, just in case he ever needed Bob to do this again. Just in case.  


“Mount,” said Sunstreaker firmly, with the same commanding tone that always got Bob to sit on the first try.  


Of course, Bob didn’t understand the command at first. A few more repetitions punctuated with Sunstreaker reaching back to spread his valve and coat his digits in a thick film of pink lubricant, and the command finally registered.  


The insecticon climbed on with no further encouragement. A bit clumsy at first and Primus heavy, the insecticon had a form to him that would take some getting used to. It was awkward. Bob’s body didn’t fit right with his, not like a regular mech’s, and the spines on his forelimbs didn’t help.  


Bob locked his forelimbs around Sunstreaker’s middle, a grip so strong it nearly forced the air out of his vents, but he’d be a shameless liar if he ever said he didn’t love how tight that embrace was. A perfect twist on dominance and affection that sent an eager shudder down Sunstreaker’s arrays.  


There was a long moment of uncoordinated confusion as Bob seemed unable to line himself up, jockeying fruitlessly back and forth while getting nothing but air. It was enough to drive the yellow mech to glitch, wanting that fulfillment like mad.  


Finally, Sunstreaker reached between his legs and found Bob’s spike, writhing and hot and wow ready to go. He ignored the little bot’s whines in favor of helping guide him to his mark before it could lock onto his digits. He felt it. The tear-shaped head at his entrance, just barely poking inside. Sunstreaker clenched reflexively, wanting it, needing it.  


Bob immediately felt when he had it, and no sooner had Sunstreaker pulled his servo away did Bob find a spot for his hind legs, rock back, and thrust home. An ecstatic squeal trilled through the insecticon’s vocalizers and Sunstreaker’s jaw snapped taut. Bearings lost in a plume of static, he knocked his forehelm on the berth. A bizarre deluge of sensations ran through his sensory net as that long, prehensile spike and all its undulating parts moved within the tight confines of his valve.  


ThhaaaaAaAAAAATTT was not something he could have prepared for.  


And it was enough to make any mech lose their mind.  


Impaled halfway to his ceiling node, Sunstreaker whined shrilly, uncertain if the signals coming from his processor were from pain or pleasure; they were reading for both. Servos trembled and clenched against the berth. He tried collecting his bearings as Bob jockeyed behind him, experimenting with a light rocking motion as if getting used to the feeling himself, and it allowed Sunstreaker a sparse moment to collect himself.  


Sunstreaker’s frame shuddered, panting and muttering mindless praises at the same time pleading in his mind for the insecticon to get on with it. To really move. He wasn’t full. Wasn’t nearly full enough, but it was writhing and bucking shallowly and Primus he needed more.  


Panting as his digits scraped the berth, the secondary tendrils really began to move. Wriggling and rubbing and feeling him out. Sunstreaker whimpered, needing. Then a jolt of shock as the tendrils pulled back suddenly and caught his rim, spreading him wide with a cry at the abrupt and painful stretch. Valve spread open, Bob lurched forward and buried to the hilt.  


The only thing that kept Sunstreaker from screaming outright was the fact his vocalizer cut out from the bombardment to his sensory net. He fell on his front as the insecticon rutted him furiously. Stunned and unable to do much else but grab the edge of the berth and hold on. Optics hazy, mouth agape, and his glossa lolled. The insecticon’s weight combined with his heavy thrusting forced him to flatten out on the berth, knees sliding farther and farther apart with each thrust.  


He shook. Everywhere. The strange shape of the spike meant it dragged over sensory nodes in unfamiliar ways, and then the tendrils wormed their way en masse back inside. They stretched him until his limits were being strained on Every. Pounding. Thrust.  


“Slaggit, Bob,” Sunstreaker whimpered, clenching his jaw as the insecticon shifted his back legs forward and rocked his hips sharper, shallower, rutting them closer together.  


In his audios, Sunstreaker listened to a chorus of trills. Bob purred as he nuzzled into his spinal strut and nibbled on plates that would have gotten him a stern reprimand if his master were any less delirious. Gripping firm around his waist, pawing at Sunstreaker’s tummy and gripping his aft with his small secondary arms, caressing him in loving circles and holding him in place, a love and affection utterly unlike the bestial urges driving him to dominate the other.  


Master was good, Sunstreaker imaged Bob thinking. Good body. Good mate. Such good mate.  


Primus, that strength. He could barely work up the focus to moan as his intakes were constantly being cut short, air jarred out of his vents on each thrust. It made a terrible cacophony of grunts and groans from both of them—aahhh~—and Sunstreaker wouldn’t have it any other way.  


Keen and croons responded back to Sunstreaker’s whimpers, nuzzling into yellow back struts and holding him tight around his waist.  


With no small feat, Sunstreaker was able to get his struts realigned enough to hold tight to the edge of the berth and rock into Bob’s thrusts. Strutless and weak as the attempts were, they did not go unnoticed by the insecticon; Bob squealed ecstatically at the reciprocation. The spike’s appendages writhed with greater fervor. They curled as they rubbed together and against his nodes, internal receptors going wild with the alien sensations.  


Primus, it felt like the insecticon’s spike was a creature all its own. Undulating freely inside him. Reaching out, feeling him out. Not like digits; digits didn’t have nearly this full of a range of motion. Digits could thrust, twist, and scissor, but that was about it. No, the parts of this spike were small, but there was unfathomable dexterity as they worked into areas of his valve Sunstreaker didn’t even know he had sensors for. It lit him up like a constellation of supernovas.  


Sunstreaker couldn’t keep up. Bob was a playful, gentle bot as far as insecticons went, loyal, and able to pick up on whenever Sunstreaker needed comfort or company, or both. But this. Primus, if Sunstreaker didn’t know what a wild “rut” was like before, he sure as the Pit knew now.  


Here, Bob was bestial. Rough thrusts pounding into Sunstreaker’s primed frame, an unbreakable grip securing him to his master—his mate—as hips struck his aft and the backs of his thighs with the harsh sound of crashing metal. And Sunstreaker’s engine revved and moaned out unabashed, like a queen ripe for breeding.  


And Sunstreaker tried to meet Bob’s every thrust. Wanted to. To drive that spike as deep as he could possibly take it. Feel just how rough his loving companion could be. He wanted to know how an insecticon mated in all its wild, primal splendor.  


“Frag me, Bob,” Sunstreaker started saying, though it was little more than a desperate whine by now, vocalizers cracking. “Primus, boy, that’s i-it. Harder, ah-haah! That’s it . . . ! Good boy, Bob—!”  


If not from his own pleasure, the praise was enough to drive Bob further. Happy trills sang back to Sunstreaker, and Bob curled into his back and rutted harder, shallower, driving his spike as deep as it could go. Dark gray and purple paint already marred his aft and Sunstreaker was sore and weak, utterly battered, but he pushed back to meet him regardless. Taking him deeper until the insecticon was butting into his ceiling node with every thrust, eager. The excess of stimulation triggered a redundant transformation sequence and opened his gestation chamber, a sensation that was rightfully bizarre but not unfamiliar, seeing as he’d always enjoyed feeling it filled.  


The prospect of the insecticon filling it? Ooh~  


A sharp jar into the back of his valve told him Bob felt the change as well, and Sunstreaker’s processor frifrifrzzztstiszzZted at something new: the two main spikes unwound. He whined low in his chassis, the extra motion driving him higher, hotter. And then—  


“Oh slaggg—!!”  


Sunstreaker cut short and his jaw dropped when Bob lurched, stalled, and one of the spikes butted into the side wall of his valve. Right into a sensory receptor. And plugged into it. Sunstreaker’s firewalls were bombarded by an influx of energy and data, all streaming against his firewalls like floodwaters on a dam. All firewalls held seamlessly, thank Primus, isolating and trapping the codes as quickly as they came in.  


Bob’s pace picked up with greater fervor. Rutting into Sunstreaker’s back, his thrusts became increasingly erratic. With the second spike plugged into his sensory node, the remaining one kept rigid as it prodded harder into the back of his valve.  


A bit uncomfortable, yes, but the insecticon’s intent was clear to him. Sunstreaker bowed his back and opened the iris into his gestation chamber eagerly.  


“C’mon, boy,” he panted, coolant damp all along his spinal column. “Ngh, yes, tha-that’s it. In me. O-ov-overload in me, boy, that’s iiit—ngh! Good boy, Bob, good boy! Aah!”  


Sunstreaker and Bob felt at the same instant when the point of the tear-drop caught in the narrow iris. He pushed back at the same instant the insecticon thrust forward, piercing the appendage into his chamber. A thrill ran through him at the quick jar of pain, a slight sting lingering at the secondary penetration, and an even rougher grind through the sensitive port. Then Bob and Sunstreaker were whining together as he mated his master furiously, deeper than any mech had ever reached before.  


A few more jarring thrusts was all it took to tip Sunstreaker into mindblowing overload. Unconsciously bowing his spine until his abdomen scraped the berth, his gestation chamber expanded to accept the insecticon’s release.  


Bob’s squeals of delight flooded Sunstreaker’s audios over the static buzz of his own ecstasy, and somewhere in the midst he felt something solid and unyielding butting against the rim of his valve. The insecticon’s rhythm was gone in a plume of static. Spike tendrils flared out in every direction, pushing the walls of his valve out unexpectedly. A few sharp thrusts and the insecticon tensed, squealing loudly flush against his master’s aft. Sunstreaker felt the rush into his chamber. Transfluid thick, hot, and insanely heavy, it flooded his gestation chamber and filled it until his core was heavy. He felt it sloshing thickly.  


Sunstreaker imagined Bob’s thoughts as he filled his Autobot master to the brim with insecticon code and viscous transfluid. Good mate. Good mate, good mate! Master mate, such good mate. Good master, such good mate!  


He smiled unconsciously. Dopey and euphoric. Strutless and lax, so completely full and heavy, his processor buzzed with the lingering haze. A calm settled around them as Bob lied atop his back, back to his happy-playful-nuzzly self, still buried to the hilt in the panting yellow frontliner.  


Sunstreaker was eventually able to get up on shaky arms and shake the insecticon off, shuddering as the spike vacate his body. He rolled onto his back and spread his thighs, watching copious amounts of vibrant pink transfluid pour out of him. Primus, he was heavy with it, like after overfilling his tanks.  


Worst of all, Bob sniffed at the mess and Sunstreaker’s stretched valve. He shooed the insecticon away and made it halfway to lying on his side before Sunstreaker thought he felt something slip out of his gestation tank. Something that was not transfluid. Startled, he sat up and contracted his internal musculature. Much to his dismay, he felt more of whatever it was slip free. Soon a series of shapes slid out of his valve along with a rush of transfluid. Dozens of small metal pellets that made absolutely no sense to him, and he spread his thighs and pushed harder. Dozens more followed suit.  


“Primus, Bob, what did you do?” Sunstreaker panted, faceplate skewed with mixed feelings of worry—for himself and whatever process in Bob’s body caused him to produce these—and disgust.  


Real horror didn’t strike until Sunstreaker felt something larger dislodge from his chamber. It was the last thing to slide out into the puddle of transfluid, and he was startled to recognize the tear-drop tip of Bob’s main spike.  


Sunstreaker made a face.  


Bob didn’t appear to have anything wrong with him; he looked no different than always, if slightly more content. The insecticon sniffed at the mess and even attempted to clean it even, eating a few of the pellets and beginning to lick up the mess of lubricant and transfluid until Sunstreaker shooed him off the berth entirely.  


Closing his panels, Sunstreaker swung his legs around and stood up. And promptly collapsed. Knee struts the consistency of energon jelly, he dropped like a rock. Bob rushed to his side, chirping with worry, but he got his act together and steadied himself with the aid of his desk. He wiped the berth down with a cleaning rag and collected the metal pieces and spike fragment into a container.  


Staring at the substantial collection, Sunstreaker wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.  


Throw it all away? That seemed like his best option. Something told him Bob would just try to eat it anyway. Why, he didn’t even want to think about.  


But he was also curious. Dangerously curious. Sunstreaker was no scientist, but he still appreciated just how little they knew about the Swarm functionally. Surely this was something new or else he would have heard Perceptor rant about it. Maybe it was important? He should probably bring it up to Perceptor. But that would mean explaining where it came from.  


He balked at the idea.  


Maybe he’d figure out what to do with it in the morning. For now, the exhaustion was too think in his processor.  


Settling into his empty berth after getting everything squared away, Sunstreaker was elated to feel that overload-deprived charge completely gone, but before he could slip peacefully away, Bob’s whimpering disturbed him. Pleading, lonely yellow optics gazed up at him from beneath the berth, looking pathetic and apologetic as if he had done something to warrant being kicked out of his master’s warm berth.  


Sunstreaker sighed. “Oh, all right, you big dumb lug,” he said, making a note to do something about all that begging. “Up.”  


Bob didn’t miss a beat. He leapt onto the berth and snuggled right against Sunstreaker’s chassis like he belonged there. Smiling faintly, Sunstreaker laid his arm over the little bot and pet that favorite spot behind his helm, letting Bob’s happy chirrs and ensuing purr tell him things were going to be okay. His optics drifted closed, and he was offline in recharge before he even knew it.

**Author's Note:**

> [More to come hopefully <3]


End file.
